


Night Sounds

by helens78



Category: Lord of the Rings (2001 2002 2003)
Genre: M/M, Rough Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2003-09-25
Updated: 2003-09-25
Packaged: 2017-10-11 22:04:31
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 1,516
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/117598
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/helens78/pseuds/helens78
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Aragorn offers Boromir the only solace he can.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Scream

There have been other men, at night, under cover of bedrolls and darkness, and there have been words unspoken at dawn. Boromir knows all the things he's never said to anyone.

He's said even less to the ranger. His captain, whether they speak of it or no; the man who will, someday, be his king.

He is angry, sometimes, and resentful; and then there are moments when he feels pain, and regret, and wonders where all this anger was born. Where it might have fed, what it lives on. Boromir is not an angry man, nor is he given to cruelty.

When his hands are too rough and his teeth are too vicious, the ranger does not complain. The ranger even caught his hand once as he was leaving, a silent plea for Boromir to stay. Boromir pretended not to notice.

The kind of cry Boromir longs to draw out of the ranger would no doubt bring their company out of sleep, wondering what's the matter. Someday, Boromir suspects, that will not be enough to keep him from wringing those cries out of his bedmate. His lover. His king.

The look in Aragorn's eyes holds no surprise tonight. Boromir simply walks away from the others, out of sight, out of hearing. The ranger will follow, tracking him through darkness, and with leaves shading them from moonlight, Boromir will wonder what it would take to make Aragorn scream.


	2. Shiver

When the others begin preparing for sleep, Aragorn keeps his eyes on the steward. There are concerned looks from the elf and the dwarf, but Aragorn ignores both. Boromir drops his hand to Aragorn's shoulder, and leaves him a quick, insistent press of fingertips -- a summoning. Boromir will disappear; Aragorn is expected to follow. It is best not to keep the Steward waiting.

Aragorn has meant to say many things during these nights. This time, he cannot hold the words back. "Could we not talk for once?" he murmurs as Boromir fumbles with the laces of his leggings. "Could we not -- _nn_."

Boromir's insistent fingers are answer enough. No words. Not this time. Perhaps not ever. Aragorn pants his breath and his pain into the air while fingers nowhere near slick enough slide into him. He braces himself on the trunk of the tree. It's all the support he'll find.

Still, he tries again. Things are more desperate now, after the loss of the wizard and the misery of the last few nights, and Aragorn wants to hear Boromir's voice while they couple in the darkness. "Boromir -- could we -- _please_ , Boromir."

Boromir's teeth are sharp on the shell of Aragorn's ear. "The King pleads for me?" he whispers. "I could grow fond of that."

Aragorn hisses; words, yes, but cruel ones, and Boromir has not always been so cruel. Aragorn wonders what would have happened had he chosen to speak earlier, perhaps on the first night Boromir made his advances. Surely there would have been other words between them. The uncertainty Aragorn feels now -- perhaps that, too, would be different. "I am no king," Aragorn whispers, "and I plead for words with my lover."

Boromir's fingers pause in their preparation; he pulls away. "Is that what we are? _Lovers?_ " Aragorn hears the soft rustling of leaves, and turns around; Boromir has set his cloak on the ground, and is kneeling at its edge, waiting. "Come lie with me, then, _lover_. On your back, this time."

This is not the answer. This is as wrong as the brutal takings Aragorn has known. But even if the look in Boromir's eyes is amused sarcasm, better that than the silence and the darkness. Better anything than not being able to see Boromir's face while they join.

Aragorn slides free of his clothes, baring his skin to the air. The cold brings up gooseflesh, but that does not matter, either; soon he'll feel Boromir's warmth covering him, and he will be -- not content, not precisely, but it will do. It will have to.

"Come," Boromir growls; he takes Aragorn's wrist and tugs him down to the cloak. He pins Boromir's hands to the earth while his teeth bite sharp trails down Aragorn's neck, and Aragorn struggles underneath him. He wants his arms around Boromir, wants to be closer, not held apart, but he gets none of it as Boromir presses the hard length of his shaft into Aragorn. Aragorn's eyes sting; he tenses, cries out, and his fingers tighten on Boromir's hands.

"Please," Aragorn whispers. "Look at me while you take me."

Boromir rises enough to look into Aragorn's eyes, and Aragorn holds his gaze.

"What are you looking for?" Boromir pants. "What do you want to see?"

"My friend. My lover."

Boromir pulls one of his hands free and presses it down over Aragorn's throat; Aragorn's vision dims, and though he can still breathe, he is lightheaded from the lack of air. His cries are plaintive, and softer now. Boromir moves harder, presses down more completely with his hand, and were Aragorn able to draw the breath for it, he would scream.

"Someday," Boromir growls, "I shall bring you a bit of leather to put between your teeth for when I take you."

Aragorn thrashes under Boromir, his free hand coming up to cover the hand on his throat. He doesn't try to pull it away. He can't breathe.

"You'll bite holes through the leather before I'm done with you." Boromir releases Aragorn's throat, and Aragorn keeps his hand on Boromir's wrist. "Someday I want to hear you scream."

Aragorn shakes his head; a scream now, and too many would hear it. He does not want the rest of the fellowship seeing Boromir when he is at his most cruel.

"Someday," Boromir growls, "you'll scream for me," and his eyes finally close again as he gives his last few desperate, impatient thrusts, his mouth opening as he finds his release.

When Boromir's grip loosens, Aragorn throws his arms around Boromir's shoulders and holds him tighter. "I will scream for you," he murmurs. "Before we reach your city, I will scream for you."

For a moment, it feels as if Boromir will pull away; in the end, though, he stays wrapped in Aragorn's arms, tangled up in his body. His breath is drawn from him in hard, choking sobs, and Aragorn holds him all the tighter.

"Why?" Boromir manages at last. He comes up far enough to look into Aragorn's eyes. "Why do you permit me this?"

Aragorn does not answer; the only words he has are ones Boromir cannot possibly be prepared to hear.

"I would stay here with you," Boromir whispers. "But we would be missed."

"I do not care." Aragorn's eyes are tearing again, and he tightens his grip with his arms, wraps his legs around Boromir's thighs and tightens his grip there as well. "Stay. _Please._ "

Boromir shudders in Aragorn's grasp, but pulls himself free. He brushes his fingertips across Aragorn's forehead.

"When you've screamed for me," he whispers, "then I will stay."

Boromir disappears, and Aragorn wraps himself in Boromir's cloak. He will make his way back to the others when he's finished shivering.


	3. Summoning

This night there's no summoning. Boromir is quiet -- too quiet, Aragorn thinks. He keeps himself apart now, and no one approaches him. If he were to disappear, Aragorn wonders if the others would miss him.

 _I would miss you._

Aragorn puts his hand on Boromir's shoulder, and Boromir looks up in surprise. "What...?"

"It's nightfall," Aragorn murmurs. "I thought we might take a few paces apart from the others and talk."

Boromir's eyes go cold. "No," he murmurs. "I would not trust it to remain _talk_. It is better for both of us if we stay here."

Aragorn drops to one knee before his friend. "I want it," he breathes; elfin ears will overhear the words, but it does not matter, somehow. "Please."

Perhaps it's seeing Aragorn on his knees that changes matters for Boromir. His eyes dart into the darkness, and he nods.

"Go," Boromir whispers. "I will come for you when I can."

Not soon enough, Aragorn hears the rustling of leaves. His breath picks up. "Shall we talk, then?" he asks.

"Are you here to talk?" Boromir growls; he reaches for the laces on Aragorn's breeches as soon as he is near enough.

 _Yes,_ Aragorn thinks, but he lacks the breath to say it.

Boromir falls to his knees before the man who will someday be his King. His mouth is demanding and rough; Aragorn twists fingers into Boromir's hair to steady himself. He feels very much as if he is merely along for the ride, trusting that Boromir will find what he needs in this merciless giving of pleasure. Aragorn finds his release altogether too soon, and bites his tongue hard to keep from crying out.

"Are you satisfied?" Boromir murmurs.

 _No._ But again, Aragorn cannot find the breath to speak.

Aragorn watches Boromir disappear, and he closes his eyes, torn between the urge to follow and the certainty that Boromir will need time and space, now more than ever.


End file.
